With The Thunder To Our Backs

Silver-lined and spit-shined

car exhausted from chasing

fine fantasies twisting through

the marble maze of Minneapolis;

sitting cross-legged with smooth

arms ready to open and embrace

me on my forlorn return to where

I keep the sound of loving.

There's rain in my peace

of mind, along with gentle

guitars and channeled voices

singing love songs that never

end; and there's smooth rocks

at the bottom of the river and

smooth hands folded at

the bottom of the sky.

The clouds are spotted and

the hazy roads lined, much

like our own wall, Dear, which

should be wearing down right

about now, crumbling down one

sandy brick after another, and we'll

turn our backs on it after all;

we'll turn our backs on nothing, at all.